Paramour
by Jubalii
Summary: When fighting is just an outlet for other emotions, something's bound to break eventually. [M for sexual undertones but nothing explicit?]


**Author's Note** : boy howdy… do I love to suffer. (déjà vu song plays)

* * *

Their first kiss was entirely unintentional.

It had been a fight, one of the rare fights that went beyond the scope of their duties as Inquisitors, devolving into petty name-calling and well-aimed insults. She'd been on a role, having more than enough fodder from the 'Wild Ride' to insult not only his current place as the town laughingstock, but also his horsemanship. It always delighted her to no end to see his face flushing deep red with mingled anger and humiliation, to almost _hear_ the grinding of his teeth by the motion of his jaw alone, the subtle clanking of his armor as his limbs shook with fury under her verbal assault. It was normally by this point that he'd make an exit, refusing to listen to her 'pointless, unfounded comments on his person'.

But he didn't.

The first second his mouth was on hers, she felt nothing but shock. Her arguments died in an undignified squawk, her mind racing to figure how he could move across the room so quickly, her ears bereft of her own shouting as well as his. Then, as the shock became kindling for her indignation, he seemed to understand the position he was in, the short length from her knee to his groin, from her claws to his face. He pulled away, his face equal parts staggered and unremorseful.

For a long moment, they merely squared off in silence, his unrepentant eyes locked in an impromptu staring match with her blazing ones. It was only broken when her hand—gloved, not clawed, to her own dissatisfaction—came up of its own accord and met his cheek with enough force to knock his head sideways. He blinked, tongue working in his mouth, and she wondered if she'd made him cut his cheek. _Serves him right_.

"What—how dare— _who do you think you are_?!"

"I had to make you shut up somehow…" He was breathing just as hard as she. "'Twas all I could think to do." Something about those words, spoken so matter-of-factly, only roused her ire more. Her hand came up to repeat the slap, but he was on his guard this time; he caught her wrist in an iron grip, holding her arm at bay while she struggled to land another blow.

"How dare you touch me," she hissed, only angrier by the fact that he was stronger than her, and had no reason to keep from flaunting said strength. "Give me one good reason that I shouldn't have you thrown the dungeons for harassment!"

"Verbal abuse from one's superior." His smirk was infuriating. "If you file a complaint, I'll be next in line behind you. I'm sure the Storyteller will be surprised at such vile words from a _lady_ as professional as the High Inquisitor."

"You would use a lowly tactic like _blackmail_?" she spat, still working on wrenching her arm from his grasp. "When you accosted me? When you're accosting me right now?" He let go of her abruptly, and she nearly tumbled to the stone floor.

"Prove it." He raised his hands in a mocking manner. "Prove that I laid my hands upon you. Bring forth witnesses." They both knew she couldn't, that it was only his words against hers. That even with such a tight grip, he wouldn't have pressed hard enough to bruise her. His hand rose, one finger pointing to his face. "I, however, have a better case." Already, she could see the bright red of her handprint against his cheek.

"You deserved it," she scowled; turning away to hide her clenched fists. How dare he try to usurp her in such a manner! And… _that_ was to be her first kiss?! She wasn't the most maidenly of women, but even she wanted something more than an angry gesture meant to keep her _silent_! She wanted to spit, even though it was only his lips against hers, nothing more.

"I never claimed otherwise, milady."

* * *

She hated the thought, but she wanted him.

It was her to kiss him next, many moons later when he just _wouldn't shut up_ and her frustration levels were already at maximum capacity thanks to the old man's insane workloads. She realized on that day how quickly it could happen, how easy it was to stop the flow of words in a way that was almost guaranteed success.

He didn't slap her, though he did push her away. And he was angry, rightly so. But that didn't stop her from sneering down at him, nor did it stop his hands from yanking her back towards him a moment later.

After that, their fighting became charged in different ways. Their arguments, normally clipped and borderline spiteful, eased until they were throwing barely hidden innuendos and playful banter instead of snide comments. It got to the point that all she had to do was look him over, her eyes alight with glee as she pointed out how _easily_ he managed to work his way up the ladder of the knights, hinting at how she knew some of them were not at all interested in the opposite sex. He was not above the same treatment, staring blatantly at her chest while he wondered aloud if she wore such tight clothes on Parade days for some secret, exhibitionist pleasure.

 _She-devil, tin man, harpy, hothead, kitten, pageboy_. Even their insults lacked a certain bite these days.

"You two seem to be getting used to each other," The Storyteller remarked once, while praising her for the peace that permeated the Courthouse with the lack of tense screaming-matches from the Inquisitor's Hall.

"I suppose you could say that."

* * *

"Nitwit."

"Hardhead."

"Stubborn git."

"Immovable…woman."

"That place is a stain upon the town, and you know it." She fought the urge to cross her arms; such a tell would show defensiveness, a sign that he could wheedle his way through her resolve. It was fruitless—her mind was made up.

"'Tis a harmless place, with hardly any criminal activity. I'm more worried about the tree lines, where the witches keep popping up like mushrooms after a rain." He was as determined as ever. Though their fighting hadn't reached the pitches that it used to, these low-toned sparring matches were as exasperating as if they were shouting and gesticulating for all they were worth. It was fruitless, in a way—they were both as stubborn as a pair of mules in a farmer's field. Neither could outdo the other, and neither would stand down and let compromise take the lead.

"It's a fine thing when they're mourning the dead and we say "Ah, but look! There are no witches at the tree line; never mind the thieves that stole your purse and stabbed your father.""

"I rarely get reports of illicit activity there," he countered obstinately, lips pursed. He loomed over her, even with her high heeled boots. But her eyes being at the same level as his chin never deterred her from trying to stand over him. He respected her as the High Inquisitor; that much she knew. It was just in his nature to argue, the same as hers.

"Because it's an illicit _place_." She stepped close, scowling up at him. "There's no rhyme or reason to filing reports when you'll be arrested along with the rest of the criminals."

"'Tis not."

"'Tis so."

"'Tis _not_."

"'Tis so, and I've half a mind to incite you for suspicious activity. One would think you're _harboring_ the criminals, rather then—" She stopped when he leaned down without pretense. Her mind harkened back to earlier arguments, where they always ended up with swollen mouths and nothing resolved. "Don't try to end it this way," she warned harshly, though she made no movement to back away and he wasn't crowding her in with his hands.

"Don't tempt me—"

"Don't you _dare_." Their noses brushed. "I'll arrest you this time, I swear it," He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her.

"You're full of hot air."

"Coward." Her lips brushed his as she whispered the word. She knew what was coming. Even so, she wasn't prepared for his teeth to catch her bottom lip teasingly. "Y-you—" He leaned back just enough that they could eye each other, his expression both guarded and heated.

"Leave the tavern to me," he murmured, eyes half-lidded as he bent towards her lips once more. She leaned back, bumping against the front edge of her desk as she evaded him.

"Sir Barnham." Her hand groped at her desk for something, some weapon, _something_. This whatever-it-was wasn't really teasing, not their status quo of bickering and mockery. This was different, a new outlet of emotion that left heat pooling in her gut and in her cheeks, which left her breathless as his parted lips brushed against her cheekbone. "S-Sir Barnham," she tried again, her voice pleading—but for what? For him to stop? Or… to keep going?

"Leave it to me," he repeated, his breath warm against her ear. "Don't worry about such paltry things, when you're needed for larger jobs. I can handle any criminals in that district."

"You won't convince me this way," she protested, though her shaky tone was saying otherwise. His hand rose to brush at one of the curls resting against her shoulder—surely it was just the cold metal of his gauntlet that made her skin so hot, the discomfort of it was the reason she lifted her head, not to give him better access to parts of her he shouldn't be touching in the first place…. "What are you doing?"

He pulled away, his eyes falling to the rapid rise and fall of her breast. This time, however, it wasn't for joking or petty jabs at a 'perverse nature'. He seemed to soak in the sight, gnawing at the inside of his lip while his hand fell to her shoulder, and then her waist. She stiffened, but to her own surprise she didn't stop him as he seemed to measure its span with his hand, fingers slowly drifting up towards her chest and tracing the seam of buttons on the front of her coat.

"I… I don't know," he admitted honestly, gauntlet gleaming in the light as it played against the darker fabric of her uniform. They both fell silent, watching the slow trek of his hand up her side. He didn't seem inclined to stop, and for the life of her she couldn't think of a _good_ reason to stop him. They were coworkers and things were bound to be awkward later, yes, but it didn't override the fact that deep down, she had _wanted_ to feel that metallic touch for a long time.

There was a telltale clang of iron footsteps in the hall that finally spurred him into action, his hand flying from her torso as though burned. He retreated towards the relative safety of his desk, staring at his open palm before clearing his throat and turning towards the door to great whoever had come to knock at it. She peeled herself from the desk, walking around to sit in her chair and busy herself—or pretend to busy herself—with the never-ending stacks of paperwork.

It would be a good three days before they could look each other in the eye.

* * *

"Lady Darklaw, I thought I told you to leave this district to me."

She froze, silently cursing. Why was he here? Making sure her face was schooled before she turned, she graced him with a longsuffering look.

"So you did. And lucky for you, I'm just heading home." It's not a lie; the Shades have contacted her about a problem in the woods, which she planned to see about. This was the easiest route to take. But now that she said aloud… it sounds suspicious. "Not encroaching on your territory," she half-joked with her usual sneer, hoping to throw him off the scent.

"You live _this_ way?" He looked around at the dingy, derelict buildings. His mouth opened, but whatever he meant to say must have been deemed unworthy, or too rude. Perhaps a question about her pay?

"I-I'm taking a longer route home. I like to…." Any excuse her brain came up with seemed less than stellar. He waited, one brow arching when she took too long. Finally she sighed, making up a little white lie to please him. "Pssh. If you must know, I was giving two men the slip. I thought they might have been following me, but it seems I was mistaken. Or perhaps I merely walked faster than I thought I could."

"Two men?" His sharp eyes peered over her head at the dancing shadows in the alleys, the sky too clouded for the moon to offer more than a faint glow. "I'll walk you home, then. It may not be safe." His fingers twitched at his side, reaching for his sword. _D-damn!_ He couldn't do that; her home was in a place that technically didn't exist!

"I'm fine," she excused herself quickly. "Trust me. You should go make sure any other young ladies don't get manhandled." She thought of his adoring 'fans', something like jealousy twisting her stomach. She pushed it back with a frown. "I'm sure they'll be grateful for it."

"Alright." She breathed a soft sigh of relief, hoping he didn't hear. "But I'll see you home first."

"That's not necessary!" Even in the dim lighting, she could see his eyes widen. _Too loud! Now you really look shifty!_ "Er, that is—I can take care of myself." She envisioned her Shades, waiting in the dark and wondering where their mistress was. Why she hadn't come to them yet. "Really. I don't need—" She faltered when he stepped close, his eyes alternating between watching the shadows and her face.

"Lady Darklaw, it would make me feel better if I could see you safely to your door. I don't like thinking about… anyone trying to take _advantage_ of you in the dark." She shook her head, motioning to the dagger she wore around her waist.

"I'm prepared for scenarios like that. And was I not able to outmaneuver them? I can easily find my way back home from here. I'd be more concerned about unarmed women walking these streets so late." Her voice was steady, assured.

"Still—" His brows furrowed, but her confidence seemed to work. "If you insist. But promise that you let me know anytime you feel unsafe."

"With pleasure." She nodded her assent. "Now, if you don't mind, it grows later by the minute. Good evening, Sir Barnham."

"Good evening, Lady Darklaw." She felt his eyes on her until she turned the corner. Walking quickly, she snuck to one of the Shades 'hidden' emergency bins, reaching in the dark and finding the spare Cloak of Invisibility that was kept there.

 _I'll find a way to carry one on me at all times now. It won't do to have him snooping around._

* * *

 _Damn it, damn it,_ _ **damn**_ _it,_ _ **damn it**_ _!_

It was easy to see how he'd snuck into the house, dressed up in a Shade cloak that seemed a little baggy for him. Her anger was not at him, though, but at herself. She watched him close the door quietly, the lock catching with a soft click as his eyes never left hers… or her _eye_ , at least. She had to lend her Cloak of Invisibility to a new Shade who had lost his, along with a stern warning that he should find it sooner rather than later. She could have gotten a spare one on the way home, but she'd let herself be lulled into a false sense of security these past few months.

She should have known he'd find a way to follow her, even into the Woods.

"So… it's you, then." Her mouth opened to refute his statement, but she was struck dumb by the thought that he would recognize her voice, even as the Great Witch. He stepped forward and she stood, frozen by shock and horror from where she'd jumped from her throne when he pulled back the hood.

"Did you not think that I'd recognize this body?" he murmured, his hand reaching out and brushing up her waist. "Or these?" he continued, taking one of her clawed gauntlets in each hand. She stiffened as the air around them changed, charged with adrenaline. He was wary, his eyes checking the corners of the room. _Looking for my Talea Magica, are you?_ His hands tightened around her wrists and she met his eyes through her mask, her lips parting.

It was a fight.

She managed to break free after a fierce, but almost silent struggle. He grunted as the force of her own muscles, however slight, were enough to throw him off-balance. She swung out, no longer caring if she cut him with her claws, but he ducked the blow and pushed, both hands pressing into her stomach with enough force to knock her back into the chair. She banged her head against the gilded edge, hissing in pain before kicking as he fought to get her dangerous gauntlets off her hands. He managed the left one, pinning her down with his shoulder as he worked on the right. She felt the heat of his body, saw the bare hands wrestling with her metal gloves, and realized— _he's not armored._

Her teeth sank into his shoulder through the cloak, smiling as she heard his sharp yelp of surprise and pain. She fought against him, still kicking as she worked her left arm free. Spitting out the woolen taste of the cloak, she twisted her fingers in his hair and yanked backwards for all she was worth, tufts of hair coming out as he clenched his jaw and fought. Her right gauntlet came free and he threw it out of reach, momentarily caught off guard by the scar of fire on her hand.

Her only way was to escape. Throwing all her body weight on him, they tumbled out of the chair and onto the floor with a crash. Despite her bare hands being less of a match against him, she still slapped and punched and scratched until he rolled off of her. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the secret door, only to fall hard on her face when he grabbed the end of her long dress and tripped her. Panting, she kicked at his hand, only to be tackled back to the floor and return to her previous bite-scratch-smack method. He managed to pin her arms to the floor, his heavy body weighting hers down so that no amount of bucking could offset him. He leaned in close, a red welt under his eye at odds with the scar on his brow.

Unable to think of anything else, she head-butted him.

They both let out a shout of pain, and then they were rolling on the ground with the sole intent of pinning the other long enough to catch their breath and gain an upper hand. While he was stronger and larger, she was lither and had enough adrenaline to at least match him, if not best him.

"Mistress? Venerable Mistress?" There was a bang out the door, the lock rattling as the Shade on the other side tried to open it. They both froze, him on top with one hand pinned and the other's fingers laced with her own, trying to arm-wrestle her away from his face. She took a breath and then his mouth was over her own, muffling her shout.

"Don't you do it," he snarled when he was sure she was out of breath. "Tell them everything's alright."

"Not a chance—" Again his mouth slanted over hers roughly.

"I can do this all day and the door's locked." Her hand trembled with the force of keeping it off the ground, lest he have her properly pinned once more. "Your call."

"V-Venerable Mistress? Have you taken a fall?" There was a panicked fidgeting. "Shall I call the others? Can you hear me?"

"I—I am well! Don't worry!" His fingers tightened, crushing hers between them. "Damn you," she spat in an undertone.

"I'm not the damned one," he answered harshly, eyes narrowed. "Take off the mask."

"No."

"Take it off." She heard the shuffling footsteps of the Shade as it left.

"N-o!" Her knees slid up faster than he could react, pushing him up and away as she kicked the breath out of him. He choked, sliding to the side and loosening his grip; she used the moment to her advantage, trying to stand and yank the tails of her dress out from under him and adjust her mask at the same time. Turning again to run to the escape door, she managed to get it halfway open before arms circled her waist and lifted her off the floor, away from the door. She gasped, grabbing his hair again and yanking up, this time taking a good handful before he dropped her. They grappled, shoving against walls and ripping curtains, cursing and growling like animals. Then, when she turned to slam her side against him, not realizing his hand was caught up in her veil, she heard a rip and felt the air on her upper face.

Her mask had torn in two, fluttering away from her and drifting towards the ground in a graceful mess of gossamer and dark cloth. Life seemed to slow down to a crawl as she felt her hair, unbound while wrapped up in her mask, come free and fall down around her. Her bangs fell over her eyes and she staggered back, pushing them away with bruised hands. They stood, the two halves of the mask between them as they panted and watched each other's movements. She waited for him to throw himself at her again, but without the mask he seemed more hesitant. She licked her lips, feeling the sweat dripping down her back as she took the time to push her hair into some semblance of neatness.

"So… all this time… you've been lying to m—to us. To the town." His breathing was labored, and when she looked back she saw his shoulders slumped, a look of pain on his face. "You've pretended to be helping us, when really this entire time you were one of _them_." His jaw twitched, hands fisting. "A… a w—a _witch_." He turned, kicking the chair with an exclamation of fury before running his hands through his hair.

"Sir Barnham, calm yourself." The words left her mouth before she could think about them, more from force of habit than anything else. He turned on her, eyes wild, before stalking up and slamming a hand against the wall. She flinched, shifting her eyes from the quivering curtain to his own, too close to her face as he glowered.

"Are. You. A. Witch." His voice held the hard edge of an interrogator, but his eyes… his eyes begged her to tell him no. She looked at the door where the Shade had been, knowing his gaze would follow.

"I am _their_ witch," she admitted softly. This answer didn't seem to pacify him as much as it did her.

"But can you do—where's your Talea Magica?" She shook her head wordlessly. " _Where._ "

"I don't have it."

"Where did you put it?"

"I… I never had one," she said honestly, her back beginning to ache as she pressed harder against the wall. He hesitated, stormy eyes watching her carefully.

"Can you do magic?" His hands tensed, fingers curling into the curtain. She knew what he was getting at. _The only one who doesn't need a Talea Magica… the witch who can makes spells happen without the magical gems… technically, I_ _ **am**_ _that witch. But—_

"I am not Bezella," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Promise me." His lips trembled. "Promise me that you're not…" She kissed him properly this time, for once feeling like her reasoning was a good one.

"I'm not," she murmured against his lips. "I promise." He surged against her, pushing her further against the wall as he kissed her back. She smoothed her lips over the marks she'd made on his face, shivering as his hands found her waist and slid up to the golden chain, undoing the clasp and letting it fall between them with a sharp _clank_. "Zacharias…"

"Milady," he breathed back, working now on the ribbon that held her collar to her neck. She let him untie it, making a little sound when he drew it from her shoulders and let it fall to meet the chain as well.

"N-no, my name…" He didn't answer, his fingers pushing back the stiff collar, the remnants of her mask, and her hair until her neck was bared. He leaned down, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses against her rapid pulse.

"Hmm?" he finally grunted, worrying the sensitive skin with his teeth.

"I mean…" she pushed his head back, grateful that he didn't try to fight. Licking her lips, she took a deep breath. "My name. My real name."

"Lady Dar—" She shook her head.

"No. It's… Eve. My name is Eve."

"Eve." She couldn't help the involuntary jerk when she heard it repeated back to her. "I like it. It suits you."

"D-does it?" She felt like she couldn't think straight, her mind awhirl as he resumed his work on her neck, hips pushing against hers in a blatant invitation. She shivered again, taking a selfish moment to feel his hair instead of trying to rip it out by the roots. _I've got to stop this_. "Zacharias… we can't. _I_ can't." It hurt to hear those words spoken aloud, no matter how rational. "You can't… you've got to forget this."

"Eve." She gasped when his hand ran over her breast, resting atop her heart before running back down to palm the weight of it. She closed her eyes against the blush that spread over her cheeks, trying to reign in her urge to push him to the ground and let him do what he pleased. "Whatever you do… whatever you're about to do… don't."

"W-what—"

"I won't tell." His other hand slowly, slowly rose to cup her right breast, waiting for her to push him off. It occurred to her that she could shout and scream now, to call for help, and it would catch him off guard. But she couldn't, not when he was staring at her so sadly. "Eve, I—I want to—I've never felt like this for anyone else before. I want to protect you. Even if… even if." He looked at the room, at the tattered halves of her mask. "Please. Let me stay and help you. I'll make sure no one finds you out. I'll give you alibis if people begin to get suspicious." He rested his head in the crook of her neck. "I'll take care of you."

For a moment she held him, thinking about the offer he'd made. Could he? Could he become a helpmate, an extra set of hands making sure this utopian society the Storyteller dreamed for his pet town stayed a reality? Were her days of loneliness over? Could she really be allowed a shoulder to rest her head on at the end of the day, a ear to listen to her troubles, a warm, calloused set of hands to shower her with affection when she was in need of it?

 _Foolish little Shade, little witch, thinking that it would be so easy._

"Zacharias." He lifted his head and she cupped his jaw, thumb running over the faint welt still left behind by her nails. She kissed him, again and again, soaking up everything he could offer for a time when he wouldn't be around. "You're going to forget all of this."

"W-what?" She looked into his eyes, at the unhidden desire burning there, desire not only for her body, but for her love, for her assertion that he could be her bodyguard, her helper, her lover. A tear slipped down her cheek.

"This is all a dream: a crazy, wild, amazingly detailed dream. None of it is true." She breathed in the air, the air heady with the scent of ink, wet ink. Susceptible ink. Ink she was immune to. But not him. "You're going to wake up in your own bed, and you won't even remember my name. It'll be as if you never set foot in these woods. None of this exists." True, the ink worked better with general statements. But a dream was a dream, right? And it was already working, he was nodding along even as his brow crinkled in apparent confusion.

"Eve?"

"Shh…" She kissed him again, one final time, her free hand searching for the cold silver she knew was in the pocket of her skirt lining. "Shh…. Just go to sleep." The tinkling sounded as terrible as a death knell, his lips sliding from hers as he slumped down on her in a dead faint. She clutched him to her, even as she fell to the ground, burying her face in his chest and letting her hot tears stain the Shade cloak while she muffled her cries. She stopped as quickly as she could, losing no time before unlocking the door and calling for her servants.

"Venerable Mistress! I'm so glad—what's the matter?"

"Take this man to the barracks and make sure he's in bed. Don't forget to take the cloak from him."

"Y-yes, Milady, only—" She waved a hand impatiently, trying to wipe her eyes as discreetly as possible.

"I've already dealt with his memories. Just make sure he wakes up _in his own bed_."

"Yes, milady."

* * *

"What happened to you?" Her breath caught in her throat, but she hoped she managed an even stare all the same. Barnham scratched sheepishly at a bruise on his arm.

"I think I got into a fight last night, but I must have been…" he trailed off, holding his head.

"I told you that tavern was no good," she remarked wryly, bending to her work.

"'Tis… ah, well." He yawned. "It didn't help that I had a strange dream."

"Oh?" He blushed, looking pointedly away from her.

"A-aye…erm—Milady, it occurred to me this morning that I don't know your first name."

"Why would you need to?" She eyed him sharply. "I don't need my subordinates getting too friendly with me, and I know you can't keep a secret to save your life."

"Urk! N-never mind!" He hurriedly disappeared behind his mountains of paper with another yawn. "Only… Eve?"

"W-what!?" Her hand froze mid-sentence.

"Did I guess it?" He crowed happily. "It was Eve, wasn't it? I must be physic!"

"Or bewitched!" The smile slipped from his face. "You tell anyone else and I'll personally see to it that you get a new office in the coldest dungeon cell."

"Y-yes, Lady Darklaw! I mean _no_!" She glared at him until he vanished once again, one hand reaching for his dumbbell as he began to write reports.

 _At least you have him this way._ It was a small consolation, for what might have been had she been brave enough to allow it. But no matter. She went back to her own papers, letting the comfortable silence between them grow.

The Great Witch was far too busy for a paramour.


End file.
